3 comments:

Bill Western Jr III: “Dale, it’s great to be interviewed for your show, thanks for having me”.

Dale: “Yep, Clones eh?”

Bill Western Jr III: “If one can afford it, why not? The advantages are numerous. Firstly of course, they are available in the event of medical emergency. Having the same DNA and blood type means no rejection in the event of a transplant. They’re also handy body doubles – one in each car of my convoy and no one will know which is which”.

Dale: “How rewarding is clone life, day to day?”

Bill Weston Jr III: “Oh They keep busy, they have a schedule of fitness training, and manual jobs. People really like “Handmade” crafts like hand sewn clothes or individually painted dolls. The clones enjoy doing them. Most of them tend towards the lower end of the intelligence scale, which is for the best really, they’re our body, but they’re not US. Can you imagine a clone as smart as me?”

Dale: “Indeed. Clones impersonating their Originals is becoming a problem.”

Bill Weston Jr III: “Well, we keep them safely within the compound walls. Plus, they’re marked with an abdominal tattoo and microchip, which resolves most ID issues.”

Dale: “Yes 3, Indeed you are.” He lifted the clone’s shirt.

Bill looked down and saw, “Bill Weston Jr. Clone #3” tattooed on himself. “Oh”, was all he could manage. “But I….”

“I know, you, have to get your limousine. Come on, this way, back to your pen”.

You aren't supposed to move like that. Clones are supposed to sleep until revived. Not flutter their eyelashes when I stand before your pod. It's bad enough seeing my inanimate face through the milky glass. Seeing you move, seeing you twitch, is worse.

A knock. Your right pointer finger banged against the pod. I'm sure of it.

It’s not lipstick on a collar, long hair on his sleeve; not the scent of unfamiliar perfume like an omen in the air - not in real life. After twenty-five years of sleeping and waking beside the same human, it’s the tiny that tips you off.

He began to reminisce, and he has never been a sentimental man. At night, holding hands beneath the covers, he stopped asking for more, and sometimes I found him gazing at old photos, bleary with age, and grinning like a fool, his thumb stroking my photograph.

When I confronted him, he denied it, as I knew he would.

“I’ve never loved anyone but you,” he all but smirked. “I swear it.”

“Who is she?” I insisted. “The woman you daydream of.”

“Only you,” he sighed, and his eyes went dreamy. But when I pressed my sagging body against his, he turned away, cold.

Later, I pressed harder.

“I see you,” he whispered in the darkness. “The old you – or, the young you?” He laughed like a loonie.

“Are you tripping?” I hissed.

“I think I’m time traveling,” he whispered back.

That was the week I got the certified mail. Inside, the typed letter reminded me:

"It has been twenty-five years since our first successful human cloning endeavors! Thank you for being one of the first volunteers. To find out where your clone is now, please visit the clone.gov website."